Tuesday, September 17, 2019

Tuesday poem #337 : Ariel Dawn : All Day the Rain

All day the rain, listening to it and his heart and the ancestors as they arrive, make tea, whisper over papers, knock down walls. A merry chaos when Lawrence opens his grey eyes, seeing only what was there last night: the dark oak floor, sea of books and clothes, table of bottles, glasses, candles. He rises in the rainlight and hunts for his clothes, the socks the gentry hid. Fancy a little breakfast? he asks, stumbling to my dreary wall of a kitchen: bread, port wine jam. The attic turns twice the size and fills with shadows. I clear the table, and in the centre, place a bowl of blood, gold, rose apples. My mouth is too small, my jaw cracks. The spell may break. I tear the toast. Lawrence, look at the rain; divine! I push the plate away, away, for I am half light, between worlds. Silver threads across the ceilings of new rooms, ancestors applaud for the gentry dancing on tightropes to Debussy.

Ariel Dawn [photo credit: Sara Hembree] lives in Victoria, British Columbia with her son and daughter. She spends her time writing, reading, studying Tarot, and working on her first collection of prose poems. Recent work appears in Guest, Train, and Litro.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Tuesday poem #336 : Samuel Strathman : Vestiges

i possess a few
sacred handfuls

vestiges of what
once was

afternoons and evenings
spent in bed with our
arms linked and pushed skyward
to the sun or the stars

whatever was
there to greet us
up above
we were there ages ago

Samuel Strathman is a Jewish/Canadian poet, author, and educator.  Some of his work has appeared in Half a Grapefruit Magazine, Montreal Writes, Peeking Cat Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, as well as other publications.  His book The Radical Dreams became available on Amazon back in April of 2018.  He lives in Toronto, Ontario.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, September 03, 2019

Tuesday poem #335 : Shelly Harder : untitled

once there was a man who didn't like a single thing about his appearance but he stared in the mirror for weeks and one day he realised he had a coy flirtatious mole on his left temple and then he was happy

I never know why I am sad the philosophers say birds do things merely of instinct but think of the daffodils that wilt or the carrots in the fridge memory is a vegetable force that digs and digs and cannot fly

yet they call machine intelligence artificial as though ours sprouted genuine and inevitable as though ours were an untampered whole grain fibrous and good for the gut

at night the apocalypse happens in my dreams the world is drowning mouldy attics the only place left and I swim floating rubble humid, weltering, dull

& there’s not much to say three bushes on a pinprick hill and fields of yellowed grass, the train stopped under a filthy sky the reek of fire, a translucent bag stabbed on a branchand the insistent promise of rain

when loss has lost its loss, there’s nothing much to remember

Shelly Harder hails from rural Ontario and recently has lived in Ireland and the UK.  A first chapbook, remnants, was published by Baseline Press.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan